


I Smell Like Victory, I Taste Like Blood

by badwolf, dysphorie



Category: Motionless in White (Band), Tim Sköld (Musician)
Genre: Blackmail, Boot Worship, Come play, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, M/M, Manipulation, Verbal Humiliation, look nothing here is nice ok?, we are just creachers, we cannot change thise, what do you want from us
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-24 19:27:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22063156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolf/pseuds/badwolf, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysphorie/pseuds/dysphorie
Summary: “You weren’t complaining this much when you needed your little album made.” Tim hisses into his ear. Of course he brings that up. He never misses a chance to bring that up. “Don’t need anything now? Think you’re too good for the people who made you?”Chris shouldn’t respond, he knows he shouldn’t. And yet.“You know that's not true," he whispers.Or, Chris should've just ignored that knock at the door...
Relationships: Chris "Motionless" Cerulli/Tim Sköld
Comments: 25
Kudos: 28





	I Smell Like Victory, I Taste Like Blood

**Author's Note:**

> We apologise for nothing. 
> 
> Sorry not sorry.
> 
> No gods, no masters.
> 
> We cannot be stopped.

There's a soft knock at the door. Chris isn't one hundred percent positive he even heard it, and honestly, he kinda hopes he didn't. If he did then there's only one person it could be and this just isn't the right time for that. Not that there’s _ever_ really a “right” time for that.

Another knock. Louder, harder this time.

Chris winces. _Shit_. He could ignore it, knowing they'll go away. Eventually. But he'll also have to pay for that. Eventually. What would be better? That or just getting things over and done with? The only thing he knows for certain is that by sitting doing nothing, he's just making things worse for himself. He tries to give himself a once over in the mirror as he stands up, but he can't. Can't look himself in the eye knowing what he's about to do. Again.

The door creaks as it opens like something from a Hammer film, lending an air of the macabre to the situation. Making Tim, scowling and leaning on the door frame, seeming even more like an eldritch cryptid than usual. Chris winces at the look on Tim's face. 

Hungry isn't the word. More like _ravenous_ , irritation bubbling just beneath the surface. It’s enough to make Chris pray the fear isn’t visible on his face. Not that it would matter. Tim can smell the blood in the water already.

Tim doesn’t wait to be invited in. Just pushes past Chris with a jagged elbow, sauntering into the middle of the room and turning with his arms folded and lips pursed. 

“‘Bout fucking time,” Tim says. “I was worried you were going to stand me up.”

No, he wasn’t. Tim doesn’t do human things like worry about rejection. Doesn’t do human things like accept rejection. 

“Now isn’t really a good time,” Chris tries. It’s futile, he knows it is. But he has to try all the same. 

Tim’s laugh is dry and humourless. It cuts down to Chris’s soul.

“When is it _ever_ a good time for you, babe? You’re always so uptight. You worry too much.” Tim says, putting on a facade of concern. 

A muscle twitches as Chris clenches his jaw, grinds his teeth together. There’s no point in the act, they both know exactly how this will play out. But Tim’s always has enjoyed playing with his food. Likes watching Chris sweat. Choosing to ignore that, Chris takes a deep breath and steels himself.

“What do you want, Tim? I’m trying to finish getting ready.” The fake polite tone sounds pathetic, Chris knows, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to make this easy for Tim. Even if Chris himself is _always “easy”_ for Tim. Whatever. Everyone has their weaknesses.

“My dear boy, you know _exactly_ what I want.” Tim smiles, all pointed teeth and nothing behind the eyes. It sets Chris’s teeth on edge. He doesn’t so much lick his lips as dart his tongue out to taste the air. 

Chris feels himself recoil, even though he knew what was coming. Somehow he’s never fucking prepared, because Tim is The Fucking Worst and likes to change shit up at a moment’s notice. But Chris has known Tim long enough and been used by him often enough to know the tells. His knees twitch with a pavlovian urge to drop onto them. For now, he chooses to ignore it.

“No.” Chris hopes his voice sounds firm. Like he really means it this time “I have to save my throat for the gig.”

Tim lifts his hands, curls them into the ratty fabric of Chris's sweater and tugs their bodies closer together. _Shit_ , Chris starts a little at the contact. He hadn’t noticed Tim moved so close so quickly, 

"C'mon baby," Tim purrs, practically millimetres away from Chris's neck. "I know you want me…"

“Seriously Tim, knock it off!” Chris swats away Tim’s hands, turns and steps away. Tim moves with him, keeping them together. God, he smells really fucking good.

“You weren’t complaining this much when you needed your little album made.” Tim hisses into his ear. Of _course_ he brings that up. He never misses a chance to bring that up. “Don’t need anything now? Think you’re too good for the people who made you?”

Chris shouldn’t respond, he knows he shouldn’t. And yet.

“You know that's not true," he whispers.

Tim sneers. Chris heard the wobble in his voice and knows he didn't even sound convincing to his own ears. He knows Tim will have caught it and will use it against him. Because Tim's excellent at sniffing out weakness and twisting it to fit his own needs. He's selfish like that, but oh so generous too. 

He's given Chris more than he's ever taken from him, and Chris knows he'd give Tim anything in return. Everything. _Has_ given and will keep giving Tim anything and everything. How do you say no to the person who made your dreams come true?

So he lets Tim gently take hold of his hand, pull him down to hunch over so it rests on the side of one milky thigh, and he can feel the ripped stockings soft beneath his fingertips. The reaction is electric, searing through him in a rush of shame and arousal in equal measure. God, he can feel the heat of Tim’s skin through the thin layers of fabric, and it makes him want to die. Chris doesn't resist the gentle but insistent force, lets Tim guide his hand up Tim’s skirt. 

_Oh._

Tim’s forgone his usual lace panties. Chris’s hand meets skin, grazing along Tim’s thigh until the angle's right for Tim to grind his cock into Chris’s palm, squeezing it until Chris curls his fist around it. It barely even counts as a handjob, Chris is nothing more than Tim’s masturbatory aid. Tim has one hand on Chris’s shoulder, using it for leverage to grind harder into his hand. 

“I’m getting, uh, I’m getting impatient Chris.” Beads of precome are dampening Chris’s palm. “Time to choose babe, before I go find someone more agreeable.” His dick twitches. “Ricky is always so eager to please.” 

A rush of fear hits Chris’s gut. “Leave him out of this.”

“Why? Worried what he’d have to say about our ...arrangement?” Tim asks, voice hitching just a little when Chris presses his thumbnail across the head of his dick, just the way he knows Tim likes.

“Just, just,” Chris pauses, licking his lips. “Give me a minute.”

“I don’t _have_ a minute, Chris.” _God_ , Tim always did this. Always rushes Chris and keeps him flustered and off-kilter so he can’t think straight. I’m a busy man -”

Chris doesn’t give Tim a chance to finish. Wrenching his hand free of Tim’s grip he pushes Tim, probably slightly harder than necessary, down onto the couch behind him. He’ll probably get hell for putting his hands on Tim like that, without permission. Right now he doesn’t care. He knows Tim wouldn’t go after Ricky. Maybe. Probably. But it’s not a chance Chris can take. And, despite knowing better, he _does_ want Tim. Has always wanted him, long before they even met and Chris was just a little baby-bat goth that didn't know liquid eyeliner from his elbow.

Tim just grins, grabs hold of Chris’s hips when he throws a long leg over his lap to straddle him. The kiss is full of teeth like broken china and tongues like fire. Chris can’t help the way he whines into Tim’s mouth as he grinds their dicks together through their clothes. Too many clothes. As much as he loves Tim in a skirt, it’s in the fucking way. He gets his hand back around Tim, feels the way he’s leaking precome fucking everywhere, slicks it down and around and rubs Tim’s foreskin rough enough to make him grunt sharply. That’s probably the loudest noise Chris’ll get out of him; he knows this like he knows his own name, knows Tim doesn’t give up proof of pleasure easily or willingly. From now on he’ll be intentionally fighting to stop it happening again. Can’t have Chris think he’s in control, after all.

Tim doesn’t ask, doesn’t suggest, just shoves Chris sharply and husks out _“Lube.”_ He doesn’t ask what Tim wants him to do, no point in asking when Chris already knows the routine. He doesn’t say anything at all as he grabs the little bottle from his makeup kit, shucks off his pants (thank fuck he didn’t put his boots on yet) and slides back into Tim’s lap. Black painted nails dig into the soft flesh of his thighs, scoring long red marks up and down. Chris has to bite his lip to stop from crying out. Not because he doesn’t want people to hear them; everyone knows, it’s an open secret (they just don’t know _why)_. He just doesn’t want to give Tim the satisfaction. Yet.

“Come _on,_ ” Tim hisses, impatient as Chris reaches back start opening himself up. It hurts. Shoving two fingers in as deep as he can right off the bat, not giving himself any time to get adapt. Tim won’t fuck him dry, he’s not willing to risk tearing his foreskin. It’s nothing to do with not wanting to hurt Chris, Tim has made sure Chris knows this. But he _will_ get so demanding that Chris will hurt himself just to make Tim happy. He braces himself, hand tight on Tim’s shoulder. _Fuck_ , he smells so good. Amazing. Like a drug. Chris buries his nose in Tim’s neck, whimpering wet and hot against him, feeling Tim’s pulse fluttering under his lips.

The whimpers turn into a high whine as a cold, wet finger breeches his hole alongside his own. Tim nudges him, hisses _“Shut up, slut,”_ as he sinks another in, and Chris has to fill his mouth with the fabric of Tim’s shirt, biting down on it as those fingers pull and tug at his insides. Saliva runs between his teeth. He’s fucking drooling from everywhere. God, he hopes his lipstick isn’t getting ruined. 

Tim’s skirt is rucked up between them as they’re rutting against each other, dick against dick. The slide is so easy. So wet and so good that Chris wishes he could just keep doing that. But no, all too soon Tim’s hands are guiding him to sit up straighter, to kneel up while Tim slicks himself over with lube and holds steady for Chris to start the slow sink down.

It burns. Always, fingers never enough to open him adequately for Tim’s girth. But he doesn’t stop; just pauses, adjusts his hips a few times, concentrates on the tiny, bitten-back whimpers Tim’s making rather than the pressure stretching him wide. Slowly but surely, Chris lets himself fall further and further down the rabbit hole.

Tim slides down in his seat till his ass is closer to the edge, giving Chris more room for his stupid knees, running his hands up under his sweater to grip more firmly on his waist as Chris takes a deep breath and gives an experimental roll of his hips. A heated moan spills out of them both before either can stop it. Another breath, another roll, moans muffled in bitten lips this time. It doesn’t take long before he’s rising and falling in time with Tim rutting up off the couch. Those nails finding his back and dragging down it so hard that Chris knows he won’t be wearing white shirts for a day or two. It’s worth it. Worth every agonizing second. 

Tim reaches down and takes hold of Chris’s dick, making him sob out loud in relief, even though he strokes him so slowly it’s almost cruel, so different from the pace they’re fucking at. It confuses his body, makes his movements stutter and legs shake. The nylon of Tim’s stocking pulls at the downy hairs of his inner thighs. Tim’s shaky moans are quiet but they’re there. The look on his face is even worse, eyes nearly shut and mouth hung open, tongue pink and Chris wants to fucking suck it. But he can’t, not without permission. 

There are _so_ many sensations at once. Too many. Chris is coming apart, movements getting sloppy along with the sound of flesh slapping flesh. Eventually, it’s easier to just slump forward, head on Tim’s shoulder, and let his body move on autopilot. Surrenders to Tim, like he always does in the end.

It could be ten minutes later or ten hours, Chris has no idea, but he jerks hard when Tim speaks.

“Slow d-down,” Tim pants into Chris’s ear, biting his lobe hard. He grabs at Chris’s hips, fingers digging in as he pulls the pace back. “Don’t want - don’t want to come yet. I want you on your knees.”

Chris gasps, confused. “But I said -” 

Tim bites down again, making Chris interrupt himself with a cry. “I’m not gonna fuck your fucking throat, I just want to come in your - _uh!_ Your mouth. You know you want me to.” He really really doesn’t. “Tell me you want it,” Tim says. He’s grinding Chris down against him, his cock stabbing into Chris’s prostate with every twitch inside him. “I’ll even let you hump my boot like a horny mongrel, you always liked that.”

The words make Chris’s heart ache and stomach roil. Because it’s true. It’s all true. He hates it but he loves it more, is so so disgustingly grateful for every scrap of attention Tim gives him. He’s so generous. He nods, whispers a hoarse _“Please,”_ but even in his addled state knows Tim would never make it that easy.

As usual, Tim delivers. “No, no. You’ve got to say it _right_ , Chris. Use your big-boy words.”

_Oh fuck. Oh no. Not that. Please, Tim, anything but that..._

“Say it,” Tim husks through gritted teeth. He shifts his hand away from Chris’s hip, swapping hands and grabbing loosely at his cock again. Chris feels sick, sniffs and shakes his head. He can’t even form the words to protest. When Tim laughs there is no humour in it and he digs his nails in. “C’mooooon, babe,” he drawls. _“Say it.”_

Chris whimpers. Tim knows he hates it. Tim himself doesn’t even like it, just likes how it makes Chris miserable and uncomfortable. As if he’s not already squeezing Chris’s soul to death in his bony grip. The grip that tightens on his hip, digs its nails in and scrapes hard enough that Chris _knows_ they took skin with them.

“P-please,” he stutters, the word tasting like bile on his tongue, “Please come in my mouth, _Daddy?”_ How he manages to not cringe is anyone’s guess. 

“Again.” Tim’s close, Chris can hear it in his breath, in the way his hips are twitching even as he holds still.

“Please, I -” Chris is going to vomit. Is going to die of shame.

_“Again.”_

So Chris does it. Sniffs and begs. “Please, daddy, please. Daddy, I need it, Daddy _please,_ ” over and over. 

This time Tim seems satisfied by his performance. With horribly gentle hands he pets over the bruises blooming on Chris’s hips and leans in to kiss him softly. It makes Chris dizzy. The kiss breaks as he lifts up onto his knees, moaning at the sensation of loss as Tim slips out of his hole. Then there’s a hot hand at the back of his neck, pulling back into another kiss, deeper, harder this time, tongues lashing together as Tim moves that hand to set it against Chris’s chest and _pushes_.

Chris narrowly avoids breaking his wrist as he twists and catches his body awkwardly before he hits the floor. Still, he comes down hard on his knees, scraping them across the cheap rough carpet. _Shit,_ _that’s gonna sting for a while_. But at least he’s already in position. From there it’s just a matter of swinging one leg over a skinny ankle and lining himself up.

 _Oh,_ he hates how good it feels. The ladders of the laces press and rub right against that one good spot just under the head of his dick, making him shake and groan as he works his hips back and forth. Tim’s jerking off in earnest now, making all these wobbly noises that compete with the sloppy wet sounds of his hand flying over his dick. Chris watches, mesmerized. Couldn’t look Tim in the face now even if he wanted to. He’s too distracted watching the way the wet head of Tim’s cock pulses, watches that vein swell and stiffen as he waits for his cue. It won’t be long. For either of them, hopefully. Then it’s just a case of swallowing and clean up, and it’ll all be finally over. Leaning forward, Chris drops his jaw open, lets his tongue roll out and watches Tim twitch and gasp as saliva drips off the tip onto his thigh.

Long slender fingers reach out to brush across Chris’s cheek, soft, hesitant. Chris turns into the contact, nuzzles it like a neglected dog and he turns to press a kiss to the palm.

It’s gone though, faster than he can process, and the next thing he knows is it’s fisted in his hair near the nape of his neck. _Tight._ And it pulls. _Hard_. 

Everything happens at once. Pain sears through Chris’s neck and scalp, shooting straight through his every fibre until it hits his dick which starts spurting hard and hot. Then Tim, but on his face, and _what the fuck is happening??_ His mouth is empty and his face is wet and Chris isn’t sure if he orgasmed or died. 

It only takes a gentle push, Tim’s boot to Chris’s shoulder, to tip Chris off-balance. Slumping sideways onto his hip, then shoulder, then ear onto the floor, groaning and wheezing and utterly unglued. His mind is blank, orgasm thoroughly ruined, leaving his dick soft and unsatisfied. Silence rules for a few long moments. A part of Chris hopes it lasts forever.

Nothing lasts forever though. “Oh, dear,” Tim says, tapping his toe to draw Chris’s attention to the boot. “Looks like you made a mess.” 

Shit. From his crumpled position on the floor, Chris is eye level with the streaks of his own jizz now decorating the boot. The quickly drying white standing in stark contrast to the beaten black leather. Chris is moving to his knees before Tim even starts to speak again.

“Clean it up.” It isn’t a request. 

Chris hates the taste of jizz, even if he thinks his own jizz is probably one of the better tasting options out there. Perks of veganism. But the best tasting jizz in the world still tastes like jizz. Taking Tim’s is one thing, he’s used to that, barely registers the taste anymore, but his own... He flinches as his tongue makes first contact. It’s only years of practice that keeps him going. The punishment isn’t worth refusing. 

He makes quick work of it, swallows all of it down without being told. Chris is leaning up, mouth open, to show Tim when the boot connects with his shoulder again. It was more of a shove than a kick, but without being braced for it Chris still goes sprawling back. He collapses, boneless, no point in trying to get back up.

Above him Tim wipes his hand on his stocking. Not that he needed to, he never gets his own hands dirty during these rendezvous. The dirt is all saved for Chris. It's just simply another tool in Tim's arsenal used to make Chris feel disgusting.

Tim sighs theatrically and glares at Chris, like this was his idea. Like this is all his fault. He uses the toe of his boot to shove Chris back again. Chris goes easily, giving Tim the space to stand up.

“Look at the mess you’ve made,” Tim says again. “Now I have to change.” 

With that Tim leaves. Like nothing happened. He doesn’t even look back as he exits the room. 

Chris doesn’t know how long he lays there. The taste of his own jizz curdles in his mouth. Does he have time to brush his teeth before the show? He probably could do it if he gets up right this second. He doesn’t get up.

“5 MINUTES TO STAGE!” The banging on his door startles Chris out his usual post-Tim headspace. 

Fuck. His make up. 

Chris dashes to the vanity and assesses the damage. Miraculously most of his face is smudge-free. The setting spray did its job magnificently. Tim managed to land on his cheek and neck. Easy enough to whip up. Now it’s like it never happened. 

_Like it never happened._ Chris repeats it to himself all the way to the stage.

Mercifully Chris somehow manages to avoid Tim between their sets, trying to keep to himself enough to keep from having a heart attack but not draw attention. The gig itself is actually going pretty good; the Glasgow crowd is loud and enthusiastic as always, jumping when he says jump, clapping when he claps. No one's broken anything, everyone's alive. It's fine. He's fine.

Famous last words.

They're taking a break, gulping down lukewarm water while they can. Chris is half convinced he can _still_ taste Tim on his tongue. Justin is to his left, staring at him. He doesn’t bother trying to shout over the sound, just cocks his head to the side. A pantomime of an inquisitive puppy. Justin picks it up right away, he’s good at that, always figuring out what the others mean with their half-finished words and proto linguistic grunts. He points at Chris than his own neck, cocking his own head back at Chris in confusion.

Curious, Chris touches his neck. It’s...damp? _It’s probably just sweat, that’s all -_

His soul leaves his body as he looks at his hand, sees the wet smear that’s glowing bright blue-white under the blacklight. Wiping it along his sweater deadens the glow a bit, but it’s still there. Chris pulls his sweater down, slips the hem back and carves into his neck with the fabric. The blue-white stain isn’t visible from inside the fabric. The tacky sensation against his arm is fine. Everything is fine. He goes to scrabble at his neck again but Ricky is grabbing his arm before he can move. 

“S’nothing, leave it,” Chris yells. This close Chris can see Ricky’s eyes fixed on his neck still.

“No seriously dude, what _is_ that…?” _Oh shit_ , Ricky’s reaching up towards Chris’s neck. He lashes out, batting the hand away, trying to ignore the hurt look on Ricky’s face. It doesn’t matter, he can’t have Ricky tainted by this.

“I _said_ it’s nothing man, just leave it, alright?” Chris scrubs his neck hard with the palm of his hand again, trying to rub the remnants away and smudge his body paint back over the bare spot. Ricky turns away with a scowl and Chris hates himself all over again.

A flash of white catches his eye, and Chris jerks his head to the left. Tim catches his gaze from the side stage and smiles. Chris feels sick.

**Author's Note:**

> wolfbad.tumblr.com
> 
> dysphorie-dot-png.tumblr.com


End file.
